Of True Friends and Vindictive Staircases
by Liduen Kvaedhi
Summary: Johnny takes a tumble, and with everyone out of town, is left with a pretty bleak outcome. However, he realizes that true friends are always there when you need them the most. Mild language...R&R... Chapter 3 has been posted!
1. Chapter 1

Disclaimer: I don't own the Dead Zone…. sob

A/n: Okay, I totally suck at writing, but I enjoy doing it, and my friends all seem to think it's rather good. So, this I thought up right after my own fateful tumble… I tripped and fell down my stairs about a week ago, and no one was home, and I couldn't get up. Mind you, I'm like, 17, not eighty…

Prologue

"Where the hell did I put that remote?" Johnny dropped the couch cushion he was holding and frowned. This was the second time in a week he'd managed to forget to put the remote back in the basket on the table. Now it was gone, having apparently grown legs and walked away while he'd been asleep.

The thunder that rolled across the Maine landscape reflected his mood, and the headache forming behind his eyes throbbed in time with the storm that was brewing outside. Yep, just another average day.

He almost didn't hear the phone ring. Seating himself haphazardly on the couch cushions that were stacked on the floor, he grabbed the receiver off the cradle and hit the talk button. "Hello?"

"John? It's Sarah. How're you doing?"

John shrugged. "As well as can be expected. How's the cabin?" He leaned back against the couch cushions and closed his eyes. "Oh, well, it'd be more fun if you were here. Walt and JJ need some fishing lessons. If it was up to them we'd starve." She laughed, and Johnny responded in kind, though it was a slightly false laugh, since this didn't, at this moment, strike him as very funny.

"Please come up, John. Maybe some fresh air will help your headaches." She sounded so hopeful. "Alright, give me some time to pack and stuff. I'll call you when I'm almost there." He set down the receiver and groaned. He didn't need fresh air. He needed some aspirin and a soft pillow. Standing shakily, his headache protesting any kind of movement, he stumbled into the kitchen and grabbed the aspirin. Dry-swallowing two, he climbed the stairs and headed to his room. Closing the door, he collapsed onto the mattress, asleep before his head hit the pillow.

The caterwauling of the telephone poked a hole in his bubble of solitude. Opening bleary eyes, Johnny struggled into a sitting position and looked around. The room was dark, save the beam of light on the floor from the street lamp outside. He'd slept through the entire day.

The phone insisted that he get up, and he did so, falling almost immediately back onto the bed. An explosion of painful colors burst across his vision. His headache was back with a vengeance. The sound of the phone cut through his skull like a chain saw. If it was Sarah she would keep calling until he answered. He needed to get to the phone.

Johnny's own home seemed foreign; everything was distorted and painfully bright, even in the near-darkness. He stumbled down the hall to the stairs and took them slowly, leaning heavily against the wall. He never saw the wallet on the stairs he'd conveniently forgotten to move.

The fall was short and brutal, and he landed on hard floor at the bottom. His back struck the ground first, and he cried out as his spine's screaming agony joined that already radiating from his head. As the phone continued to ring, Johnny felt the world tilt and toss him into oblivion.

He hardly wanted to wake up again. As soon as he was aware enough to open his eyes the pain from his spine returned, firing agonizing signals all over his body. The headache was gone, and that was only one of the small comforts he'd been awarded. The phone had also stopped ringing. That probably meant that Sarah had given up on him coming to the cabin.

Come to think of it, John's outlook was bleak. Bruce was in New York for a medical convention, and the Bannerman family were enjoying themselves out by the lake. Reverend Purdy had made a habit of avoiding Johnny since the incident with John The Baptist's finger bone. It could be days until someone found him.

John tried to move and was rewarded with a particularly vindictive throb of agony from his spine. He collapsed back onto the floor and tried to breathe deeply, but he ws panicking. _Nice one, Johnny. Brilliant, a psychic that can't predict the wallet on the steps. What have you gotten yourself into?_


	2. Chapter 2

Author's Note: Whew! Okay, so sorry it's taken me so long to update... I've been at band camp all week and haven't really had time to write... so here's chapter 2, sorry it's so short... after band camp I should have a little more time...

Responses to Reviews:

Hatred Behind a Mask- Well, I have continued! Thanks for reviewing, glad you like it!

Sarah- Wow, your compliment is appreciated. I hope you like this installment as much as the first one!

Chapter 2

"Come on, John, pick up the phone," Sarah intoned to the voicemail, yet again. Walt sat at the kitchen table across from her, watching JJ playing X-Box in the other room. He was glad he'd relented and allowed the kid to bring it along.

Sarah slammed the phone down on the table and scowled. "Something's got to be wrong." Walt touched her hand. "Maybe he's sleeping off another headache. Just wait a while and we'll try again."

"Maybe you're right. I just worry. I never liked him living alone, it always bothered me that if something happened to him there would be no one to help." She rubbed her temples and then looked up at Walt, who was grinning. When she raised an eyebrow, he tried to straighten his face out. "Maybe we should get him one of those cats that dials 911." He laughed, receiving a playful smack in the head from Sarah. "So, should we take the boat out? I'll bet I can catch more fish than you or JJ." Sarah reached for the stack of live vests on a kitchen chair. Walt grinned again. "You're on."

The sun was well up the next time Johnny came to. His spine had stiffened agonizingly overnight, and now it throbbed in time to his pulse. He couldn't move, or wouldn't for fear of causing further damage to himself, and the phone now seemed miles out of reach. His cell was upstairs on the nightstand. He'd heard it ring twice during the night, probably Bruce calling from New York.

Lying on the hard floor, Johnny pondered again through a list of potential helpers for this situation. No matter how hard he tried, he couldn't think of anyone that would be in town, or willing to come check on him. Most of the time this wouldn't have been a problem, since he enjoyed spending large amounts of time alone with his thoughts and visions, but given the current circumstances…

"Okay, John, think," he said aloud, his voice rasping hoarsely against his throat. He winced and decided speaking out loud wasn't going to help him calm down. _How am I going to get out of this one? Let's see, I can't drag myself across the floor; even if I could move there's that loose nail in the floorboards I never fixed. I can't get to the phone, and I can't just lay here. So the million-dollar question is, what in the name of all that is holy am I supposed to do? _He sighed and closed his eyes, trying to ignore his throbbing back. _Maybe I'll just rest, for a second._

There was a light on upstairs, but the rest of the house was dark. Walt leaned against the car and sighed deeply. It looked like Johnny was home. Maybe he had his phone disconnected or something. But no, then the voicemail wouldn't have picked up.

Sarah had tried to call John off and on throughout the entire day, but he still hadn't answered. Finally, Walt had agreed to calm his wife's nerves by coming down to check on Johnny. So far, it was looking like the psychic just didn't want to talk to them.

Crossing the street, Walt walked up to the front door and rang the bell, crossing his arms over his chest and trying to look disappointed. Thirty seconds later, he was still standing there, and John still hadn't made an appearance. Walt rang the bell again, to no avail. Finally he reduced himself to pounding on the heavy door. "John! Open the door, it's Walt!" The now angry sheriff noted the disused mail slot in the door and bent down, peering through it into the front entry of John's house.

It was black as pitch inside, and at first Walt couldn't pick anything out. "John, you in there?" he called through the mail slot. There was a moment of silence, and then a groan. "Walt?"

"Johnny, are you okay? We've been trying to call you all day. What's going on?" Silence, then, "fell…can't move…find the key." Walt was slightly taken aback, but once the short speech finally registered he jumped up and off the porch, searching the rock bed for the fake river rock with the key in it. It took him almost five minutes to locate it, hiding under the outstretched boughs of a pine tree. Running back up the steps he spilled the key onto the welcome mat and jammed it into the lock. At first it wouldn't turn. Jiggling the lock a bit, he tried again, and the satisfying click of the locking mechanism's retreat was like music. However, when he tried to open the door, it wouldn't budge. There was a second lock.

Walt growled with frustration. The key didn't fit both locks. There had to be another one, but where. Frantically he searched the mat, but when his finger brushed the key it skittered off the porch and into the tall grass to one side. Cursing, Walt vaulted the rail and searched anxiously through the weeds, his fingers finally closing on cold metal.

This time, the door swung open, allowing the pallid orange light from the street lamp to beam across the floor. Walt turned the corner and almost tripped over Johnny where he lay on the floor, unconscious once more.

"John, wake up." Walt touched Johnny's shoulder and the psychic opened his eyes slowly, squinting up at Walt. "John, what happened?"

"Wallet on the stairs," came the reply. Walt chuckled dryly and tried to lift Johnny into a seated position, but the psychic bit back a scream and shook his head, the slight movements making the world spin crazily around him. "Don't, my back…" Walt set him gently back on the ground. "I'm calling 911," he intoned, taking out his cell phone. "Hang in there John."


	3. Chapter 3

A/n: Thanks to all of my reviewers! There were too many of you to thank personally, so I will just hugs all reviewers. There, that's better. So, sorry it took me soooo long to update. I am taking AP English…yikes! This one's gonna be really short, but I'll try to make the next one longer.

Chapter 3

Sarah watched for the telltale white coat over green scrubs. She had come to hate hospitals over the last ten years or so, and she nervously twisted her hands, her elbows resting on her knees. At long last, the white hem swung into view. "Mrs. Bannerman?"

"How's he doing?" Walt chimed in from the seat next to Sarah's. The doctor flipped through the pages on the silver chart in his hand, frowning slightly. "Well, he's suffered some minor damage, and he'll be confined to a wheelchair for about two months. If all goes as it should, he won't sustain any permanent damage."

Sarah sighed, half relieved, half mildly amused. Johnny was not going to be happy about the wheelchair bit. "Can we go see him?"

The doctor nodded. "He's pretty heavily sedated, but you're welcome to go in and see him." He motioned for Sarah and Walt to follow him; JJ had stayed home with a neighbor.

Johnny's room, instead of the usual white, too-bright hospital room, was a calming maroon color. A pattern of Greek-style horses raced to infinity around the top edge of the wall, and the floor was patterned with rich brown tile.

Johnny was staring dejectedly at the ceiling. His eyes twinkled briefly when he saw Walt and Sarah, dying when he realized JJ wasn't with them. Sarah pulled up a chair beside the IV drip. "How do you feel?"

"Like someone hit me with a morphine truck." Johnny's voice was thick and slurry. "I hate hospitals, a lot."

Walt leaned back in his chair, folding his hands behind his head. "Look on the bright side. At least it isn't white!"

The deep wracking pain in his spine woke him abruptly. Johnny gasped, but no air made it into his lungs. There was something wet on his face, and touching his fingers to it, he discovered it was blood. Another spasm shook him, and he almost screamed. He was suffocating on his own blood. The third seizure sent his elbow crashing into the side of the bed, and blinding pain shot up his arm, splashing spots of yellow across his vision.

Desperately, Johnny looked out the window between the slats in the blinds, willing someone to look his way, to help him, but no one did. He needed to get someone's attention or he was going to die. Looking frantically around the room, Johnny spotted the table covered in flowers. One large blue vase sat directly on the edge, teetering precariously on the brink of plunging to the floor.

Pulling his IV drip as close to the bed as possible, he reached out with his uninjured arm, his fingers barely brushing the edge of the table. The vase rocked, but remained firmly on the table. Suppressing a scream as another spasm wracked his body, he reached further, straining to reach the table, ignoring the protesting agony in his back. This time the table rocked a little harder, but the vase still refused to be unseated. With a groan Johnny threw his weight against the rail of the bed. He shoved the table hard, sending it crashing to the floor. Vases shattered on the tile, and water went spraying everywhere, spotting the broken glass and ceramic shards of vase.

Johnny felt consciousness slipping from his clenched fingers and fought to stay awake, listening intently. Finally, the welcome sound of running feet reached his ears. As he fell back, allowing the spasms to take away his awareness of the world, he heard the door swing open and frantic voices. Knowing he was in good hands, he let the fringes of consciousness slip his grip into blissful unawareness.

Like I said, really short, but hopefully it will sate your hunger for more until I can catch a spare moment. Love you guys!


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